Too Late, Too Tired (Blog #588)

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It’s just before midnight, and I’m at my friend Justin’s house. His wife Ashley (who is also my friend) has already retired, and I think Justin’s playing video games. I’ve spent the last five hours here at their kitchen table using their internet and changing every online and social media password I have. (Apparently I have a lot.) This is a project I started a couple weeks ago after a minor security breach on my laptop (I got a virus) but didn’t finish because I spilled hot tea on my keyboard (whoops). Anyway, I think I’m done now. Finally.

I just counted. 75 sites/passwords total. No wonder it took so long.

This afternoon I worked on my photo organizing project. Not organizing the photos–that’s already been done–but organizing my brain. I’m putting together a timeline of my life, like in a document. Super nerdy, I know, but last night I watched a 60 Minutes feature about rare people who remember every day–every second, really–of their lives. Like, what they had for breakfast on September 3, 1976, and what happened in the news that day. Anyway, there are like ten of these people in the world. Crazy. And I don’t need to reconstruct my ENTIRE life, but I would like to get some of the basics on paper. 1999: Graduated high school, worked at summer camp, started college, got first “real” job.

Today I concentrated on my first few summers at summer camp, 1997-1999, and took notes about things I remembered as I flipped through pictures. That was the summer I had one of the worst sinus infections ever. My temperature was 103 degrees, and the camp nurse wouldn’t let me see a doctor. (I was pissed off but didn’t know what to do or how to stand up for myself at the time.) This is the most fascinating thing about this project so far, that I recall so strongly my impressions of various co-workers and campers. In some instances, although it’s been twenty years, I still remember first and last names of people I barely knew. Just like that.

Weird how memory can be so randomly selective.

Here’s a picture from 1999, my first year as a counselor. (Before that I was an “assistant” counselor.) Boy I wish I had that fire now; my feet are freezing. They always freeze during the winter. Every year it’s five months of constant toe-frost.

So many memories come flooding back as simple information–that thing happened. But many others come back as information plus emotion. Like, I remember feeling pissed off, embarrassed, disgusted, turned off, turned on, whatever. I guess it strikes me now because at the time I wasn’t one to either trust my perceptions or acknowledge my emotions. And this is the fascinating thing for me, that although I wasn’t consciously processing what was going on back then, my body was still taking it all in, still storing the data in the background the way my computer saves my passwords.

I’m ready to call it a night. My feet are cold, and my brain’s all over the place. Just twenty-four hours ago, right before I went to bed, my dad knocked on my door to tell me that a dear family friend of ours had passed away unexpectedly. I think I cried myself to sleep. Today I’ve been in denial. I want to write about him because I think that would help, but I can’t tonight. It’s too late, I’m too tired, and I won’t do him justice. So maybe tomorrow when I can think straight and take my time. I don’t mean to be start a topic and not finish it. I’m simply–done–for now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s enough just to be here.

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An Anything but Awkward Kid (Blog #577)

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It’s eleven at night, and I’m blogging from my phone–one letter at a time–because I spilled tea on my laptop keyboard yesterday. (It’s currently drying out. I hope.) We’ll see how this goes. I don’t have spell check on here.

This afternoon I finished reading a book about money by Seth Godin. I already returned the book to the library, but there was a line in the section about buying houses that went something like this–“Never fall in love with something you can’t afford.” Is that great or what?

Personally, I wish I’d heard this piece of advice BEFORE I started dating.

This evening I got a wild hair and began organizing my printed photos, a project that has been on my mental to-do list for a while now. Anyway, I pulled out Rubbermaid tub after Rubbermaid tub full of pictures from my closet, laid everything out before me, and quickly got overwhelmed. Y’all, I took A LOT of pictures in my teens and early twenties. Granted, I was on the yearbook staff in college and had access to a decent camera, but whatever.

So. Many. Pictures. And barely organized.

Here’s a random dance photo of me and my friend Kira performing at the Dr. Pepper Stage at the Fort Smith Rodeo. Our group used to do that every year.

Taking deep breaths and reminding myself that any progress is better than nothing, my first task was to separate the pictures into large groups–summer camp, dance, high school, and college. Quickly, I thumbed through a hundred memories. What a trip this was, looking back over a solid decade of my existence, a dozen haircuts, waist sizes, and ages. There I was 18. There I was 30. Did either of these men even know the first thing about life?

Does this one?!

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Cameron, who drove from Texas to surprise me for my 30th birthday. I felt like shit that day, for my surprise party. I’d been sick for weeks, and–honestly–was not amused by the surprise itself. I was and am, however, deeply touched by all my friends who showed up.

After my “first pass,” I began grouping the photos more specifically–birthday parties, college yearbook staff, family photos from 2001 (the year Dad came home from prison). I also started throwing pictures away. I know this amounts to sacrilege for some people, but really, what need do I have of photos that are blurry? Or of photos of people I don’t remember or of couples who are no longer married?

Like I’m gonna pull THOSE out the next time one of them comes over to visit. Remember that time you married an asshole?! (God, that was THE BEST CAKE.)

I’ve said before that my butt’s always been the same size (roughly the size a bowling ball) and that I’ve just grown into it. Well, here’s proof from my pre-teen years and the swimming pool next door. Notice the super-cool elastic waist band.

Here’s another picture from several years later (I think). Surely I’d started puberty. Either way–same butt, bigger body.

After a few hours of this picture-sorting business, all while sitting on the floor, my body said stop. So I’ll get back to it tomorrow, or at least that’s my plan. Considering I have stacks of photos blocking my closet door, I NEED to get back to it tomorrow if I ever want to wear clean clothes again.

Even with “just a little bit” of this project completed, I already feel all the emotions. There are so many pictures of people, grandparents, who are no longer alive. People I used to spend SO MUCH time with, and yet now we hardly speak. And it’s not like–in most cases–we knew the end was coming. It just did. One day, things weren’t the same as they used to be. This is life–people pass away and people move away. People fall in love with other people who aren’t you.

And there’s no going back.

Aside from all the emotions and a definite feeling of–Where did the time go?–I’m enjoying getting the photos in a rough chronological order. I am, after all, a neat freak, and it’s good to have my memories nearly stacked away. Plus, I don’t know, there are times I know I wasn’t fully present for my life, times I was just keeping my head above water and maintaining appearances, and those memories are jumbled. So the pictures are helping me get things straight. Oh yes, this happened, and then this happened, and then THAT happened.

I hope that makes sense.

The other thing I like about this project is that I’m finding more compassion for myself. Back then I felt so awkward. Even lately, so often I’ve looked at old photos and picked myself apart, like, Why did I ever wear that outfit, or stand that way? But today I’ve seen a kid who was under immense emotional and physical stress who was doing the best he could. A kind kid. A good looking kid. An anything but awkward kid. A kid I’d give anything if I could go back and tell, “You’re gonna be all right, baby. I promise. You have everything you’ll ever need inside you. Relax. It’s all going to be okay.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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This Thing Called Life (Blog #563)

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Ten years ago my friends Gregg and Rita helped start The Oklahoma Swing Syndicate, a group that hosts a weekly swing dance in Tulsa, and yesterday was the organization’s anniversary celebration. Ten years–that’s over 500 community dances. Anyway, Gregg and Rita have always supported my dance endeavors, so last night I drove to Tulsa to surprise them. Y’all–talk about a good time. Not only did I get to see Gregg and Rita, but I also got to see a number of dance friends I haven’t seen in years. Plus, I got to see my 96-year-old friend Marina, who absolutely makes my heart melt both on and off the dance floor.

The dance itself lasted until after midnight, and since I’m house sitting for friends this weekend, I drove back to Fort Smith between one and three in the morning. And whereas the entire affair went well, I was exhausted both physically and emotionally by the time I got back. This morning I slept in, which helped, but today has nonetheless continued to be–well–a bitch. This last week presented a number of internal challenges–some of which I wrote about and some of which I didn’t–and I guess they all caught up with me. To put it simply, I’ve been in a foul mood–worried, nervous, tired.

For most of the afternoon, I tried all the tricks I know. I stuck my nose in a book. I tried being grateful. I went for a run. I ate a piece of cake. And whereas it all helped, it didn’t push me over the ledge into The Land of Contentment.

Sometimes you just don’t feel well.

Last October I was in Carbondale, Colorado, for a spiritual retreat of sorts. Exactly one year ago tonight I started feeling poorly. I didn’t write about it that night, but I did write about it the next morning when I woke up with what would turn out to be the beginning of a several-month-long sinus infection. For over a hundred days, I felt like shit. There were good days here and there, of course, but it was honestly the most challenging and emotionally taxing health situation I’ve encountered in all my 38 years. Even after I finally got my sinus issues under control, I got slammed with the flu twice in the span of six weeks (I think). It was one damned thing after another.

During this time, I was fortunate enough to get a new primary care physician, who–over the course of many months–put me through a series of tests, some of which were run by other doctors. And whereas it’s been a bitch of a year, things are MOSTLY figured out. My sinuses are still a little snotty, but I haven’t had a sinus infection in over six months. (I haven’t been able to say this in over twenty years.) Thanks to upping my Vitamin D and B12 and getting more consistent rest, my energy levels are better. Not “perfect,” but better. Recently I worked for ten days straight backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and I never once worried whether or not my body would be able to “make it.” In other words, we’re learning to trust each other.

This is no small thing.

Whenever I blog and am particularly “impressed” with something that makes its way onto the page, I copy that sentence or paragraph and put it in a separate digital notepad with the intent to add it to the “Quotes from CoCo” box you see at the bottom of each post. However, I haven’t added any new quotes to the website in essentially a year. That is, until a few days ago, when I determined to get “caught up.” And whereas it will probably take a week or two to do this, I have started the process. At first, the thought of this task was daunting, but it’s turning out to be a fun, encouraging thing, going back and re-reading the highlights and self-issued hope from this last year. Today I was reminded that “No one is immune from life’s challenges,” “You’re exactly where you need to be,” and “A storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it.”

Our struggles unearth our strengths.

I say all this because it’s easy for me to forget how far I’ve come. I have one bad afternoon, and it feels as if I’ve gotten nowhere. But we’ll ALWAYS have bad days and we’ll ALWAYS have challenges–because this is how we grow. If I were designing a universe, I’d come up with a different method for personal improvement, but this is the way it works in this universe. Our struggles unearth our strengths. (I should add that to the quote box.) Also, I think they help us connect with others. All day I tried to get myself out of my own head. I kept telling the universe, “I want to feel better.” Then tonight my friend Marla called out of the blue to discuss a writing matter. And simply because Marla’s Marla–not because she knew I felt bad and needed cheering up–she made me laugh, laugh, laugh.

And just like that, a cloud was lifted.

It seems that this is how the universe works. It answers our prayers and cries for help, but rarely does so in the manner in which we think it should. Usually, there are other people involved. Not that your own intelligence and good graces can’t carry you so far, but when you solve all your own problems, not only do you set yourself up for pride, but you also isolate yourself. My friend Kim says, “We’re made for community,” and this is a lesson I’m learning. This last year has been an amazing journey; I’m the first to admit how much I’ve grown and how much I’ve worked my ass off to do so. But it wouldn’t have been possible without the help and support of my family, friends, my therapist and my doctors, and everyone else with whom I have the privilege of dancing through this thing called life.

For all of you, I’m extremely grateful.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

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Handle Yourself with Care (Blog #557)

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Last night I went to bed late, so I slept in this morning as much as possible. Still, I’ve felt “off” the entire day–groggy, nervous. For the last ten days I’ve been busy from sunup to sundown, but today there’s been squat to do. Consequently, I spent the entire afternoon inventing to-do list items like making my bed, washing my car, and doing my laundry. I just haven’t been able to sit still. But perhaps all my activity has been good, as it’s allowed me to reorient to normal life after spending nearly a hundred hours in the magical land of Oz.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, but our living room isn’t nearly as fun as Munchkin Land. Especially since your dog shit on the carpet this afternoon while you were gone.

It’s weird how you can get used to a new routine so quickly. For nine days I woke up at 7:30 in the morning so that I could be at work by 9:00. (Me–an early riser!) But after the show Saturday night, I went to bed at 2:00 AM and forgot to set an alarm for our tenth and final day, Sunday. And yet just like that, my body woke me up at 8:00–technically thirty minutes “late,” but still early enough for me to shake a leg and get to work on time. I don’t know–I’ve spent a lot of years not trusting my body, thinking that every ache and pain or lingering illness is a betrayal. But if my body can wake me up to go to work, it’s obviously smart and probably capable of MUCH more than I give it credit for.

I’m trying to believe in my body more. I’m trying to believe in myself more.

Just before tech week started, I was doing my level best to be in bed by midnight or one, limit the amount of caffeine I drank, and exercise. My internal mantra–which I borrowed from fitness guru Susan Powter–was “Eat, breathe, and move.” And whereas I ate healthily during those ten days in Oz, I didn’t bother with the caffeine restriction or even try to exercise (except for all that running around I did backstage). Anyway, I’m planning to ease myself back onto the “better-choices wagon this week, to re-implement those little changes consistently. Historically I’ve given myself a lot of crap for not being “perfect,” but this is life, and life happens. My therapist says, “Don’t say you ONLY dieted for three days. Say you dieted FOR THREE DAYS. That’s huge–some people never make an effort!”

I’m trying to be gentle with myself this time, to not be such a hard-ass perfectionist. I’m trying to handle myself with care.

This evening my friend Emily, who plays The Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, invited me to join her and a few other cast members for dinner. Oh my gosh, y’all, what a perfect way to end my journey down the yellow brick road. For a couple hours, the five of us laughed, shared stories, and celebrated the birthday of the actor who plays Uncle Henry and the Gatekeeper of The Emerald City–Michael Weaver. Thank y’all!

Not it’s ten o’clock. Like yesterday, I’m awash with emotion, feeling everything from sadness to gratitude. Mostly, I’m tired. It’s especially difficult to know where to put everything when you’re tired. With any luck I’ll be curled up in bed soon with a book in my hands. Oh, Reading, how I have missed thee! Yes, this is what I need–to settle in and settle down, to read a few chapters, and finally to drift off to The Land of Nod, where anything is possible and everything works itself out one way or another.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

On Soaring and Sinking (Blog #551)

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It’s day five working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and I woke up this morning in THE BEST MOOD. I really don’t know what came over me, but I started dancing as soon as I got out of bed, then grooved and shimmied all the way into the kitchen. I even plugged my earphones into my phone and turned up Christopher Cross. It’s all right, I think we’re gonna make it. But then in an effort to spin while moving from the refrigerator to the counter behind me, I dropped an egg on our open dishwasher, and it splattered all over the clean dishes. WHOOPS!

Arriving at the Alma Performing Arts Center, I was THAT GUY–the one who’s smiling and bouncing up and down with joy for no apparent reason. I don’t know–maybe having a routine and working a job that I enjoy is doing me good. Who knows? This was at nine o’clock, and I normally don’t even crack a smile until after noon. But this really has been a wonderful week. I’ve even been looking forward to driving home late at night and seeing my parents. They’ve been feeding me dinner and helping me make sure my paint clothes are clean, ready to go for the next day. As I eat, we talk about our day and catch up on each other’s respective soap operas. I often make self-deprecating remarks about living with my parents, but I think that needs to stop, since I wouldn’t have these positive memories otherwise.

Currently I’m on lunch break, which is only thirty more minutes. (Since I have other business to attend to at dinner, I’m blogging now.) Hum. I might have to finish writing late tonight. We’ll see. Anyway, somewhere during the last four hours, my good mood from this morning seriously dissipated. In its place has come a lot of internal chatter, mumbo-jumbo, and bullshit, which I think has mostly to do with my feeling like a stranger here. To be clear–everyone I’ve encountered–the cast, crew, and volunteers–are kind, considerate, and professional. Still, I don’t really KNOW anyone. At lunch and dinner when everyone else goes off in pairs or groups, I eat alone–just me, an apple and some peanut butter, and my computer.

This isn’t the easiest thing to do, observing–but not participating with–others who are having a good time. Not that people don’t talk to me or include me in things. I’ve certainly had plenty of those moments. But being the new guy isn’t the same as being the old friend or the established relationship. I don’t blame anyone for this situation. I am, after all, temporary help, and it takes time to form bonds. It was set up to be this way, and it’s ALWAYS awkward trying to figure out where you fit in.

Because I think we all–fundamentally–want to fit in.

You always have yourself to come back to.

Sitting down to write helps. I’m glad I’m doing this now instead of later. Because I’m reminded that no matter what kind of day I’m having–one that soars or one that sinks–I always have myself to come back to. As of yesterday, I’ve been doing this blogging thing for 550 days in a row(!), so I have plenty of documented evidence to remind me that people are people (doing the best they can), circumstances change, and emotions cycle through like the seasons. It’s all right, I think we’re gonna make it. Through everything, my job is to take care of me. And I can. I can be gentle and work with whatever arises, whatever shows up to be my teacher today, whatever shows up to bring me back to myself.

[Today’s top photo is from The Wicked Witch’s Chamber. I helped paint it (the bottom part). In this scene, Dorothy asks The Wicked Witch, “How did you get so mean?” The Wicked Witch replies, “Lots and lots of practice.” I imagine this answer also applies to how one becomes kind or gentle with oneself or others. Lots and lots of practice.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

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Trying to Listen to Myself (Blog #522)

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When I went to bed last night I was in a bad mood, completely frustrated about everything. This sucks, that sucks–even my thinking sucks, I thought. Ick. My inner critic really can be relentless sometimes–so loud–such a bastard. Thankfully, a good night’s rest helped hush him up. This morning, after I scarfed down a decent breakfast and two cups of coffee, I felt much better.

Today itself–Labor Day–has gone well. For one thing, I took time to read. I love reading. For another thing, I washed the sheets on my bed, something I haven’t done in–well–months. Then I washed myself, something I haven’t done in–well–days. And that’s been it–just a simple day during which I took time to clean up a few things and get this and that in back in order.

A reset.

I suppose this is what sleep is–a reset–a basic cleaning-up of daily crap and emotions. The brain’s way of saying, let’s put this here and that there, and let’s throw this away. Of course, I’m grateful for this. I’m glad my attitude today has been better than my attitude last night. It’s nice to NOT want to put a pencil in the eye of everyone you come into contact with. That being said, I’m thinking more and more that my difficult thoughts and emotions are there for a reason, that they have something important to communicate to me, something I should LISTEN to.

I know I’ve shoved a lot down over the years. Something will upset me–like, someone will cross a boundary, let’s say–or my body will experience physical pain, and I’ll just “be nice,” ignore the problem, or otherwise grin and bear it. Having used this strategy consistently for the better part of three decades, I do NOT recommend it. Because it’s not the truth. THE TRUTH is that I’m frustrated, angry, and pissed off about a lot of things. Likewise, my body is stressed out, upset, and in pain in a number of places. And whereas my default response is to take a pill and keep on plugging, I’m TRYING to pay more attention and decipher the messages my body and soul are sending me.

This, I think, is one of the benefits to being tired or sick–it gives all the stuff you’ve shoved down a chance to rise to the surface. And not that I want to run around emotionally vomiting on everyone I come in contact with, but I DO want to start honoring and giving voice to all those emotions that I’ve been ignoring for so long. For me this looks like listening to my gut and DOING something about it. For example, recently I had an experience with someone who was being passive aggressive (that is to say, aggressive), despite the fact that they said they weren’t. “No, I’m not upset,” they said. But clearly they were–so I confronted them. “I need you to be direct if you have a problem with me,” I said. And y’all, it was the weirdest thing. The words were coming out of my mouth, but it was like someone else–or at least another part of me– was saying them. I assume this odd sensation is because I’m so used to hearing myself “be nice.”

In addition to listening to my gut and DOING something about it, honoring myself also looks like listening to my body and TAKING CARE of it. For me this means that when my body hurts, I’m trying to not immediately shut it down, but rather go inside and try to give space for the pain to exist. Likewise, I’m trying to go inside and decipher the messages my body is sending me. Having lately tried a few “go inside” exercises that I picked up in a book about illness and healing–and having had good results–I’m convinced that our bodies are not only alive, but also intelligent, conscious, and capable of healing.

This idea–that my mind, body, and emotions are on my side, that we’re all in this together–has been a tough one for me to come around to. That being said, I like it a lot better than the opposite idea, the idea that my mind, body, and emotions are somehow “bad” or against me, something for me to suppress, repress, or overcome. Because I truly do believe there is wisdom here, not just deep down inside me, but throughout me–wisdom that is here to help, guide, and protect me. So I’m trying to listen to myself–I’m trying to finally listen to myself–to let all parts of me be heard.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

"

On Dreaming of Dead Bodies (Blog #519)

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I’d intended to do nothing today. Well, nothing except read, that is. You know, go easy on myself. Maybe take a nap, rest. And whereas that’s exactly what happened for the first part of the afternoon, the rest of the day has gone to pot. For one thing, our air conditioner broke, which means the house has been getting gradually hotter with each passing hour. And if that weren’t enough, our freezer stopped working too, which I noticed when I walked into the garage and stepped into the River Jordan.

“It probably just needs defrosting,” Dad said

“Like my sex life,” I replied.

So that’s been the evening. Right in the middle of dinner, the air-conditioner repair man showed up, then the freezer thing happened. So everyone’s been running inside and outside, the guy working on the air conditioner, and me, Mom, and Dad transferring all the food from the outside freezer to the inside one–cramming-cramming-cramming everything from TV dinners to chicken wings inside and–since all of it was covered in water–making a big damn mess in the process. Then we dragged the freezer into the driveway, hooked up the water hose, and sprayed the caked-up ice inside until it disappeared like all my hopes and dreams.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Now it’s seven in the evening, and I’m straight-up irritated, mostly because I’d rather be reading a book or visiting some friends who invited me over earlier. But instead there’s the freezer project and this, the blog project. I mean, some days writing is a real source of inspiration and relief for me, and other days it’s just a pain in my ass. Like, there are times I’d like to chunk my laptop across the room and give the internet my middle finger. Seriously, I don’t recommend trying to become a better person. Just watch Netflix. Self-help and personal growth, let along sharing your every thought with the entire virtual world, is for the fucking birds.

And as if ALL THIS weren’t enough to get me worked up, now there are a million flies circling around me, the result of the back door being opened and closed so many times this evening.

Shoo, fly, shoo.

For two out of the last three nights, I’ve dreamed about dead bodies. In last night’s dream, I was trying to dispose of a dead body, first in a large body of cold water, then in a trash can. And whereas my therapist says dreams like this are good because dead bodies represent the discarding of no-longer-useful parts of one’s personality, they’re still not fun dreams to have. Again, in last night’s dream, there was an entire row of giant trash bins filled with trash. That’s good because it means I’m discarding a lot mental and emotional junk I don’t need. But still, there was a dead body–and all that trash–there was even blood. Talk about gross. Not exactly the best way to start your morning.

I say all this to point out–once again–that personal growth isn’t everything the books in the self-help aisle make it out to be. It can be a real bitch at times–ugly and uncomfortable. Because what do you do when a part of you–even a not-so-useful part of you–dies? What do you do when you’re USED to having a lot of mental and emotional STUFF around, then suddenly it’s no longer there? Personally, I find that part of me wants to celebrate The Great Letting Go, and part of me wants to hang on. Ugh. It’s so disorienting, so frustrating. You think, If I’m not that person with all that trash, WHO am I? And WHAT exactly AM I becoming?

I still don’t have an answer.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Storms don’t define us, they refine us.

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What Would My Therapist Do? (Blog #496)

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Today I woke up early-early-early to get blood drawn at my doctor’s office–cholesterol, thyroid, testosterone (GRRR). Afterwards–because I was feeling faint–I went to a donut shop and overloaded on sugar and caffeine. Honestly, I could have crashed, gone back to bed. But I was already awake and out of the house–I had clothes on for crying out loud!–so I spent the morning chugging coffee and reading my book on alchemy and mysticism. Only a hundred more pages to go!

This afternoon I poked around in one of my favorite used bookstores and unearthed two psychology books that I’ve been looking for. (They’re on Amazon, of course, but I think it’s more fun to find them in person.) Then at lunch a waiter at a local burrito shop made my day when I placed my order (three tacos) and he smiled and said, “I feel like The Three Tacos are the most undervalued item on our menu.”

Beaming because I had the good taste to value something others apparently don’t, I said, “Well, I for one appreciate a good taco.”

Or three.

My next and last stop for the day was seeing my therapist, and I realized even before getting there that I was in a good mood. This is nearly always the case on therapy days. First, my therapist is consistently funny, insightful, and uplifting, so there’s an anticipation and expectation that things will go well. Second, I often use therapy days to do things I love–read a book, peruse book and antique stores, eat tacos–like I did today. I mention this because I’m starting to realize how important it is to notice the things that put you in a cheerful mood–activities you participate in, thoughts you think (like, I’m a good person. I value tacos.) Then if you find yourself in a shit mood, you’ve got some reliable things you can try to shift you into a better one.

My personal shortlist of feel-good actions:

  • Get out of the house (get some sun)
  • Go for a walk
  • Read a book
  • Buy a book
  • Listen to eighties music (current favorite: “Private Eyes” by Hall and Oates)
  • Eat a taco (feel-good bonus: while listening to eighties music)
  • Flirt with a stranger
  • Window shop and daydream about when I can afford more things
  • Look at the stars

My therapist and I talked about this stuff today, the idea that you can create touchstone actions to help encourage better feelings, and she said you can also create touchstone thoughts to do the same thing. This part of the conversation came up because the hypnosis book I read yesterday said that when you’re in a downtrodden or sourpuss mood, it’s often because you’ve forgotten something good and positive in your life. For example, if you’re thinking, I CAN’T go up and talk to that person, in that moment you’re forgetting all the times you HAVE talked to a stranger, all the times you HAVE been confident and outgoing. So my therapist suggested having a shortlist of thoughts that make you feel happy and strong whenever you think about them–like that time your friend or relative did that one thing and you couldn’t stop laughing, or that person you love more than anything else in the whole-wide world, or that thing you did that you thought you couldn’t and are really proud of.

See–doesn’t that feel good?

Personally, I’m working on become more aware of my thoughts. After reading the hypnosis book, I know that MOST of my bad moods don’t come from what I physically feel (kinesthetic) or what I see either in the world or in my head (visual), but rather from thoughts I think (auditory). In short, there’s a lot of internal bitching, a lot of “this isn’t good enough.” But lately I’ve been catching myself mid-thought and audibly saying, “Stop.” Then I’ve been turning whatever the situation is into a joke, like “there I go again,” or otherwise trying to “lighten up.” Armed with my shortlists, I’ve started telling myself, I don’t have to make a problem where there isn’t one. I know how to feel good.

I know how to value and appreciate tacos AND myself.

Another thing my therapist and I discussed was “three strikes and you’re out,” something that came up because I’ve recently been putting up some bad (rude) behavior from an acquaintance of mine. My therapist said, “If you flake out on me once, shit happens. If you do it twice, you’re on thin ice. If you do it three times–[here she held out her closed fist then suddenly opened her fingers wide]–mic drop!” Later my therapist said that many of her clients–whenever they’re uptight, frustrated, downtrodden, or “in a pickle” with another person–will think, What would my therapist do (or say or think) in this moment? (WWMTD?) In other words, Would she put up with this shit?

If you don’t have a therapist, you could say, “What would a mentally healthy person do?” (If you don’t know a mentally healthy person–that’s a problem.)

You can be more discriminating.

This is something I’ve really been focused on lately–healthy models for change–since it’s become really clear to me that we all have default ways of thinking and responding to our environment, but there ARE other ways of being in the world. Like, just because I do a lot of internal griping, doesn’t mean everyone does or that I HAVE to. It’s simply a habit, and my mind IS CAPABLE of learning something new. Or just because I’ve always given people a million chances, doesn’t mean I have to for the rest of my life. I CAN BE more discriminating–in my thoughts, actions, and relationships.

I AM being more discriminating.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

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The Sound of My Shoes Splashing (Blog #495)

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For the last three days, my stomach has been upset something awful. I’m not doubled over in pain or anything–it’s not time to call an ambulance–but it has felt like a pubescent demon has been poking at my insides with his pitchfork.

Stop, demon, stop.

When I was a teenager, I had stomach problems constantly. I have so many memories of being curled up in my bed, knees to my chest. I used to toss back calcium tablets like they were candy corn. My therapist once said she thought my tummy troubles were because I was repressing my true (and fabulous) self. “You don’t think it was just a bad case of gas?” I said. Anyway, those days are mostly over. Mostly. A few years ago an ulcer (or something) did show up uninvited and lasted several weeks. I wanted to scream.

Well, get this shit.

In the midst of my last great intestinal undoing, I picked up a remodel job that required that I completely tear apart a friend’s subfloor, which had rotted due to water damage. I think it took two days and every hammer, crowbar, and power tool I had to bust up the tile, rip apart the linoleum underneath, and pull out the old plywood. Talk about feeling like a man. I’ve never done so much grunting in all my life. But the best part is that after I spent two afternoons absolutely fucking a floor up(!), my stomach problems completely went away.

Just like that.

My therapist said–in this instance–she thought my stomach problems were a direct result of my tendency to internalize my emotions (who, me?) and that busting some shit up was a good way for me to “get the poison out.” She’s recommended this strategy on a number of occasions–throw something, go for bike ride, break a damn sweat.

Believe it or not, I have been thinking about this advice the last few days while my stomach acids have been bubbling up and boiling over my intestinal cauldron. Actually, even BEFORE my stomach began hurting, I was thinking, I need to start walking again, maybe even running. But it’s been so damn hot. And I’ve been tired. (And drinking beer.) But when I woke up this morning and my belly was STILL hurting, I thought, Today’s the day–I’ve got to do something. So this afternoon I went to the health-food store and got some ginger/peppermint tea, as well as some kombucha, a probiotic drink that I was consistently ingesting before my recent two-week vacation but haven’t had since I’ve returned home. And whereas I think they helped, I kept thinking, Go for a run, Marcus. Get out of the house.

But again–it was like a hundred degrees outside, and I prefer to run at night.

Finally, just about the time the sun was going down and a thunderstorm warning was being issued for our area, I decided to take off. “I’m going for a run,” I told my parents, “but it’s supposed to rain.” My dad, engrossed in some television program, didn’t even look up. “You won’t melt.” So I stuffed a Ziploc bag in my pocket to protect my phone if it started raining and hit the pavement.

A half-mile in, the wind started picking up, blowing dust and trash across the road. It was like something from the movie Tombstone. Part of me thought, Marcus, go home before a tornado picks you up and sweeps you off to Oz. But surrounded by dark, billowing clouds and feeling the air push against my skin, another part of me thought, Keep running–this is what it feels like to be alive. (Don’t worry, Mom, it wasn’t lightning–very bad.) About twenty minutes in, the bottom of the sky fell out, so I ran up under a pine tree and slipped my phone into the Ziploc bag. Then I pulled my shirt off, shoved it in my pocket, and kept going.

Within minutes, I was soaked to the bone, but I was loving it–smiling, laughing, evening yelling along with the thunder (getting the poison out). Alternating running and walking, I played in the rain for two miles until I made it home, sometimes watching the “rivers” run along the sides of the streets, sometimes listening to my tennis shoes splash-splash-splash through the puddles, but never once thinking about my stomach.

That was two hours ago, and–go figure–my stomach is better. Maybe not perfect, but good enough that I’ve been going significant stretches of time without thinking about it. So that’s something. This afternoon I finished a hypnosis book that said if you’re having physical (kinesthetic) pain and can focus on something you see (visual) or hear (auditory), your pain will lessen or neutralize because it switches you over to a different input/output system. (You may want to try it NOW). So maybe that’s what happened. Or maybe it was the kombucha and ginger tea. Or maybe I had internalized a handful of emotions and frustrations (I DID just complete a road trip with my immediate family) and was able to EXTERNALIZE them.

We all need to feel alive.

Personally, I’m inclined to think it was the running and externalizing, since my body has been telling me for the last few days that it wants to run. So often I forget this, that the body has wisdom and knows what it needs. I’ve spent a lot of time lately inside with my nose in a book. I love reading, of course, but it’s easy to sit inside and 1) think I can solve everything with a book and 2) concentrate on my problems. And whereas these two activities are fun on a certain level (who doesn’t like to read and wallow?), neither of them feel like the rain on my face or sound like my shoes splash-splash-splashing through the puddles. Yes, we all need this–both once in a while and fundamentally–to connect with nature, to be soaked to the bone, to feel alive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We don’t get to boss life around.

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I Stumble Along (Blog #486)

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Yesterday I woke up with a headache, and it never really went away. Like, it would get better for an hour or two then resurge, especially if I were dancing with much energy. (I’m at a Lindy Hop weekend, and it’s a lot of bouncing up and down, which apparently is better at creating tension in the body than relieving it.) Anyway, that’s sort of how the day went–there’d be this build-up of internal pressure, and then it’d let off a little.

A little.

When I first started attending dance workshops, I went to every class that was offered, rotated around to a hundreds of strangers and said, “Hi. What’s your name? Where are YOU from?”, and tried to learn as much as I could about everything and everyone. Now, I hate doing that. I adore learning, but the whole meet-and-greet and be patient with a million strangers who are all struggling to do something new, frankly, is exhausting. All this to say that yesterday I skipped my classes (that I paid for) except one (which went well, and I enjoyed meeting and dancing with A FEW new people). The rest of the time I either observed or talked to friends.

Here’s the deal. I really don’t know many people out here. Like, I know the main organizer and my host, and they are both darling people, but they are also new relationships. I have close friends and people in my life with whom I can breathe deep and feel “completely at home,” but they simply don’t happen to be with me. So there’s this feeling of I’m-all-by-myself that keeps coming and going this weekend like my tension headache. I wouldn’t say that it’s “a ton” of internal pressure, but it does build up off-and-on throughout the day.

For example, yesterday I walked to lunch with a friend, but ended up eating alone. I eat alone all the time and am rarely bothered by it, but yesterday’s situation was magnified as a big deal in my head because “everybody else” was sitting at a table with their friends–laughing, carrying on, loving life–they basically looked like an iced-tea commercial. And there I was alone at the bar, looking like the first part of an anti-depressant ad. BUT THEN a girl from overseas whom I’d met in the buffet line came over and asked me if I wanted to walk back together and chat. (I’d asked her opinion about a specific dance event.) Well, get this shit–we ended up skipping the two classes after lunch and talking instead–getting to know each other, chatting about dance—like friends would. Halfway through the conversation, my friend the organizer joined in. All of a sudden, the iced-tea tables were turned. Had someone else been walking by alone, they might have seen us there on the sidewalk, basking in the sun, eating gluten-free snickerdoodles, and thought, Life sucks. I wish I had friends like that.

When classes were over, my host and I came back to his place, and I walked up the street to make sure my car was still there. (Parking here is a mess, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t do something wrong.) As it turns out, I did do something wrong. I parked on a hill, going down, and didn’t turn my wheels toward the curb. So I got a fucking ticket for $69. And whereas I didn’t immediately overreact or freak out or really feel bad about it at all in the moment, my mind kept coming back to it throughout the night. This blows. Why does life hate me?

But honestly, how was I supposed to know? I never park on hills.

But then my host and another new friend and all went to dinner, and it was fabulous. But then, after having been in a dance contest between classes and coming back to the house, I found out I didn’t make it to the next round. (What a bummer.) But then I got to the dance and my host said, “Let’s take a picture together by the sign [like friends would],” and then I had some delightful dances with people who were smiling and kind and fun to be around. But then I did that I-should-be-better-than-I-am thing. But then one dancer said, “I enjoy dancing with you so much. You’re clear without being forceful, and you have a lot of interesting shapes.” (So that felt good.) A couple hours later when the dance was winding down, I was in the middle of a good conversation AND a headache.

So it was a mixed bag.

We are all too hard on ourselves.

Waking up this morning, I’m more centered. My body is sore, but I got good sleep, and that always helps. Plus, I’m more focused on the positives and am reminding myself that EVERYONE does that comparison bullshit, especially at dance weekends. We see others laughing and having a good time, but we simply have no idea what their internal dialogue and experience is. Mostly like, we are all too hard on ourselves and ask too much from life, demanding that every experience be pleasant, every dance fabulous. But what’s the truth? Some dances, some days, suck or are mediocre. Some are both great and not-so-great at the same time. These are the ones I don’t know what to do with, the days when the tension comes and goes, the days when I stumble along. Emotionally, these days are exhausting. A little up, a little down, over and over, can take its toll.

Still.

I keep dancing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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